


the other, warped

by sadlikeknives



Category: Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Trick or Treat: Trick, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-06 04:30:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16381421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlikeknives/pseuds/sadlikeknives
Summary: There's a monster in the forest.





	the other, warped

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sokrates_pupil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sokrates_pupil/gifts).



> Backstory taken from the novella "Silver" collected in _Shifting Shadows_ , and, you know, that time Bran was Grendel.

Sometimes, though not often, the beast in the forest remembered that it had once been something else. It remembered that it had been a different kind of wolf, one who was not alone, one who slept with others of its kind (not quite a pack, not allowed to be a pack, but not quite not a pack, either), but then it remembered things it did not want to remember, things like pain and the witch, and so it did not think on these things long. Sometimes it remembered being something even more distant than that, something that came with words like _father_ and _music_ , but it was so foreign it seemed like a dream. The beast did not even remember what music was, only that something deep inside of it longed for it.

Sometimes the beast remembered that there was something it was supposed to remember. That it was important. That it had promised. But it could not remember what it was, and trying brought it closer to the thing that had had _father_ and _music_ , and the trying annoyed it, and then it raged and killed until it forgot once more to be anything but the beast, until it was once again far away from remembering the witch and the pain.

The people who lived on its edges had long since learned to stay out of the forest. They remembered that once there had been a witch in the forest, and that now that the witch had gone there was something else, something that was, in its way, worse than the witch. The witch had been evil, of course, everyone knew then that witches got their power from suffering, that she must be tormenting _something_ to have built so much power, to have lived so long, but it wasn't them, at least, and even a very bad witch could be reasoned with. What was in the forest now had no reason left to it at all, and it was hungry. Whole villages were wiped out, no one left to tell the tale of what had killed them, until the borders of the beast's territory were clearly established and even the little children knew better than to stray within them, for to walk into the beast's lands was to become meat. Travelers who disregarded the warnings didn't live to tell of their foolishness. Even the animals learned not to go within a day's walk of the beast's den, and so sometimes, when the hunting in its usual territory was scarce, it became hungry—and when it was hungry that was worse for everyone. When the beast was hungry even the edges of the forest were not safe.

The beast did not know how long it had been in the forest, and the beast did not care. Time had no meaning to a beast, especially one that did not age. Seasons came and they went, snow fell and melted and fell again, and the beast remained. If it had known _forever_ it would have thought it would stay in the forest and stay the beast forever.

And then one day a man came into the territory of the beast.

He was not like the other men who had walked confidently into the forest and then never left it again. The beast could smell it on him on the wind, that there was something hiding inside of him that was like the beast, and the scent made that other thing in its mind whisper something, a name it had been meant to remember, and then, _No. Samuel._ The witch had taken that name, but she had taken Samuel, too, hadn't she? The other thing was confused, struggling to wake from wherever it had slept, and the beast put a paw on it and tried to push it down, tried to put it back to sleep as it had so many times before, but it would not quite go to sleep.

Not it. _He_. He would not quite go back to sleep. Before, he had wanted to sleep, to never have to wake and remember, but if Samuel lived...if Samuel lived, that was different.

The thought came clearly into the beast's mind: he had thought that he had killed him.

The beast stayed in its den, and it waited, and it struggled with _him_ inside it, and the man who was not just a man came straight to it and peered into its den. The beast snarled at him, and inside the beast, the man woke a little more.

The man-- _Samuel_ \--just said, calm as a summer's day, unafraid of the beast, "All right, Da, you've the right to be mad at me. I took my sweet time finding you, after all, and I'm sorry for that. In my defense, I did think that you were dead, and I've never been more glad to be wrong. I'll just stay here for a while, until you're ready to talk." Then he asked, "Do you remember this one?" and he began to—sing, that was the word. That was what _music_ was. He remembered now, and once he remembered, he could not simply forget and be the beast again.

The people who lived on the edge of the forest did not know what to make of it when two men walked out of the woods no one ever walked out of, especially when they'd seen neither of them go in. They did not know what to make of it when, as time went on, it became clear that the monster in the depths of the forest had gone and would trouble them no more. They remembered that there had been a monster, and that before there had been a monster, there had been a witch, and they told stories, and over time, the stories changed, as some things were forgotten, and some that were remembered were remembered wrong, until one day a certain bard and his son sat in a great hall, listening to another bard tell the story of a great hero of the Danes, and as he spoke of Grendel he had slain they began to realize who he spoke of, and had to excuse themselves, lest they laugh, for neither of them had ever yet been to Denmark.

The wolves remembered what had really happened, though. The wolves always remembered.


End file.
